


His Silence

by AllTheBellsInVenice



Series: His Silence [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Plug, BDSM, Bottom Sherlock, Dom!Molly, F/M, Face Slapping, Let's start with the riding crop, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Punishment, Sherlolly - Freeform, Spanking, Top Molly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-01-21 07:51:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1543235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllTheBellsInVenice/pseuds/AllTheBellsInVenice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>For as long as she lived, Molly knew she would never forget a single detail of the night that Sherlock knelt before her with tears in his eyes, offering her the riding crop like a knight offering up his sword to his queen.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock begs for what he needs, and Molly discovers something surprising about herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

For as long as she lived, Molly knew she would never forget a single detail of the night that Sherlock knelt before her with tears in his eyes, offering her the riding crop like a knight offering up his sword to his queen. 

It had come slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, Molly’s understanding of what he needed from her. In the lab he behaved as he always did, confident and brash, his attention focused like the beam of a laser that swung from the experiment at hand, to the fine details of the cadaver before him, to her face as she shared her observations. But in the world outside the lab, when they met in the hallways, in his home, or in one of their rare chance meetings while she was out with other friends, she kept seeing a different look in his eyes, a softer look, unsmiling. A hungry look. 

It had started the night she’d been walking with some friends down the Marylebone Road in the vicinity of Baker Street. It had been Naomi’s birthday, and in the little group of intimates Naomi had invited for the pub crawl, there was a young man named Stephen who had been looking at Molly with admiration. Stephen had found out about her work and was teasing her as they all walked along, and when he made the expected necrophilia joke, Molly had turned to him and playfully grabbed the knot of his scarf, pressing his back up against an iron fence. He’d giggled as she’d laughingly berated him for being unoriginal, and he’d soon twisted free of her grasp to run ahead. But before Molly could follow him, she had found herself distracted by the watcher in the mouth of a nearby alley. 

Sherlock had cut a breathtaking figure, motionless in his Belstaff, his eyes inscrutable in the light of the street lamp as he looked at Molly without speaking. Her friends had seen nothing and were calling for her as they continued down the street. After a moment, Molly nodded to him and turned away to walk after them, all considerations of Stephen having fled from her mind. He didn’t move, but out of the corner of her eye, Molly had seen one gloved hand clutch at the knot in his own scarf. 

After that night, she’d noticed changes around her flat, odd things. The package of wooden clothes pegs on her kitchen counter, different from the plastic ones she used to hang her delicates to dry. A blue thumb drive next to her computer that turned out to be full of dark, wordless, atmospheric music. (She’d saved everything to her hard drive, creating a playlist she titled “Mystery.”) A pair of real police handcuffs, with key. Strangest of all: the sturdy eyebolts she’d discovered in the wall behind her headboard, which she’d noticed while stringing the cord for a new bedside lamp. Had the eyebolts always been there? She would have thought she’d notice them before moving in…

One night, Sherlock was in her sitting room when she came home. She’d unlocked her front door, and there he was, tall and beautiful, standing still in the middle of her flat. If he’d been any other person in the world, Molly would have shouted, protested the unauthorized entry, even called the police. But she trusted him completely and she’d just stopped and looked at him, puzzled, as he gazed back at her for a long moment, his face full of that hungry look. Then he’d approached her, taken her hand in both of his, and kissed it worshipfully, his eyes closed under a furrowed brow. And then he’d released her hand and left her flat as suddenly as he’d appeared. 

When Molly’s heartbeat slowed enough, she’d closed the door behind her and looked around the flat. She’d immediately noticed the package on her bedside table, wrapped in paper of a silken blue and tied with a black ribbon. Opening it, she’d discovered a heavy book entitled _The Loving Art of Domination._

Sitting on her bed, Molly opened the book, forgetting everything else as she pored over the contents. _Dominants and Submissives. Control and Consent. Sensation: Pain and Pleasure._ Molly read on, and her hands trembled: the book had been heavily annotated and underlined, and even if Sherlock himself had not just been in her flat, the writing was...unmistakable. How many times had she seen that untidy scrawl on sheafs of lab notes, on forgotten scraps of paper drifting like snow into the corners of his flat, on wish-lists of body parts he’d left with her? 

For the most part, the marginalia were brief. _Need this,_ beside one paragraph. _Please,_ at the top of a chapter. Here, circled, were the words _relief_ and _release._ And everywhere, throughout the book, he had placed underlining beneath the word _trust._

Molly let herself sink into the book, reading each one of his notes, taking in the outlines of Sherlock’s most secret longings. And at the end of the book, a longer note. 

_Molly,_ he’d written on the last page, _You are my safe place. I trust you deeply, and you have always been generous to me. I need to be touched, and feel I’m not alone, and I need to cry. Will you please do this for me? I will not remove any clothing, nor expect sexual acts of any kind, unless you wish it. And in the first place, I will leave you in peace unless you invite me. My safe word is fermata. SH._

Molly lifted her head and exhaled, her eyes wandering sightlessly around the neat little room. Sherlock was asking her to be a...dominatrix. No, a domina, Molly remembered, peeking inside the book again. Molly had seen how haunted the eyes of her detective could be, and she’d longed to help him, but she’d never dreamed he’d ask for this form of release.

He needed to cry, Molly repeated to herself, and a sweet compassion bloomed in her breast. He needed to let go of the iron control he held over himself, to sink deeply into the moment, to clear his mind for just a little time. And he trusted her to do this, to lead him into this dark place. If she was willing.

Molly remembered how he had asked her to risk her career to help him survive, and how she’d done it without a thought, trusting his promises that she’d be protected. Then she had carried his secret for two years, holding power over his life and death as he fought to keep all of them safe. 

Of course she would do this for him. She would try. And Molly smiled to herself, thinking in the secrecy of her mind that seeing the self-possessed Sherlock Holmes come undone beneath her hands would be rather delicious.

He’d said he would not take sexual liberties with her, but much of the underlining and marginalia indicated that he would very much like it if she chose to take a few with him. Well, Molly thought, she wouldn’t mind doing that for him. Not at all. 

*****

Several weeks later, after Molly had done a great deal more reading and research, she finally came to a point where she felt she was ready to begin. And when Sherlock appeared in her morgue, carrying a cooler that she knew contained the three scalps and two tongues she’d lent him the day before, she turned to him and placed her hand on his arm. 

“Come tonight, Sherlock. I will give you my best.” 

Sherlock gave her a look of such surprise, such wonder, that her heart skipped in her chest. He set the cooler on an empty autopsy table, then took her hands in his and pressed them, looking down into her eyes. 

“Thank you,” he said quietly, the two words carrying as much tenderness as gratitude. Releasing her hands, he strode purposefully out of the morgue, glancing back over his shoulder as he opened the door. They shared a secret smile, and off he went.

*****

That night, Molly fought down her nervousness as she waited for Sherlock to arrive. Like a young girl getting ready for her first date, she’d been glancing in her mirror every few seconds, trying not to feel silly in the red dress she’d taken out of the back of her closet. She’d bought the slinky little thing years ago, but had never summoned up the nerve to wear it outside her flat. And tonight, Sherlock would be the first to see her in it. She hoped he’d appreciate the effect.

The patent leather heels, bought especially for the occasion, and the long satin gauntlets that covered her arms but left her hands exposed helped Molly feel a little more confident. She liked the way she felt in them...taller, haughty, buttoned up. 

One last time, she looked over the few tools she’d prepared, then turned off the kitchen light, leaving only a few dim lamps glowing in her sitting room. Settling herself in the large armchair that faced the door and crossing her legs, Molly waited, going over her plans in her mind. 

She’d left the door unlocked, knowing that he would notice that the deadbolt was disengaged, and sure enough, right at the top of the appointed hour, Molly saw the door handle turning. Taking one last breath, she sat as tall as she could in the chair as Sherlock entered the room. His eyes swept the room in a flash, then settled on her as he stood in the doorway, his face neutral, closed off.

“Shut the door behind you and lock it,” Molly called by way of greeting. “Then come here.”

When Sherlock was standing before her, those strange, ocean-colored eyes on hers, Molly uncrossed her legs and used her high-heeled shoe to push his coat aside. Holding the eye contact, she placed the sole of the shoe on his leg and dug the heel ever so slightly into the muscle of his thigh. His eyes flickered.

Molly lifted her chin. “Coat, jacket, and shirt off,” she told him. “I want you naked to the waist.” 

He let out a breath Molly hadn’t realized he was holding, and tore his coat off, tossing it aside, followed swiftly by his jacket. His hands were at his throat when Molly snapped at him. 

“Slowly, Sherlock,” she bit out. “I want to savour the first sight of...of my new possession.” Not a bad line for being extemporaneous, she thought. 

Sherlock’s chest rose and fell rapidly, and his lush lips parted. So much for his neutral expression; his eyes were glittering with eagerness. Slowly, he unbuttoned the black shirt, his pale skin coming into view, and when he pulled his arms behind him to draw the shirt off those sculpted shoulders, Molly narrowed her eyes in enjoyment. 

“Turn around,” she told him, her voice smooth. He obeyed, still moving slowly, and Molly feasted her eyes as the dim light played off the hard planes of his chest, the sinewy arms, the lean belly. “Yes, darling boy, you’ll do very nicely.” 

Molly felt a glow of satisfaction at the shy smile that appeared on his face at her words. In the margin of one page on how to communicate with one’s submissive, the phrase “darling boy” had been written in tiny, faint writing, as if he were sheepish about it; Molly had immediately planned to use it, just to see his expression. 

Molly was surprised to notice how much she was enjoying this: controlling his actions, trying things to see how he’d react, savouring those reactions. 

His face was so open, so vulnerable, and he was quiet and still, waiting for her next word. The contrast was drawn starkly against his usual brusque glibness and frenetic energy, and as she looked into that lovely face, Molly found herself looking forward to paying him back for his every little presumption, every time he’d slighted her, every imperious demand he’d made. 

She sprang up from the armchair and right into his personal space; he swayed with surprise. Her face inches from his chest, she could smell his clean, male scent, feel the warmth of his skin, hear the tiny hitches in his breath. Taller than usual in her heels, she leaned in and brushed her lips against his neck. 

Sherlock made a faint noise deep in his throat, the first sound he’d made since he arrived. Molly closed her eyes as the beauty of that voice jolted straight down her spine to pool between her legs, but she controlled her reaction and stepped back from him. 

“Here are the rules,” Molly told Sherlock, hands on her hips. “Your submission for my pleasure. Your punishment at my whim. And no talking. Unless it is to moan or scream, or to give me your safe word, _fermata_ , I want your silence. Nod if you agree.”

Sherlock nodded, his eyes wide. He looked a little bit frightened, Molly thought, and that pleased her. She’d leash his verbal skills, his main force of influence in the world as well as his primary weapon. Let him learn how it felt to be disarmed, tongue-tied. To accept what she gave him, without comment. 

“What a fine specimen of a man,” Molly told him, walking around him and trailing her hands freely over his torso, indulging herself. She cupped and squeezed one biceps, one pectoral, and ran firm fingers over the corrugated surface of his belly. “So strong. Not that your strength will do you much good while you’re here with me.” 

Stopping behind him, Molly picked up the police handcuffs from the nearby table and ratcheted them onto one wrist. “Hands in front,” she said, coming around to face him once more. She captured his other wrist, then placed a hand in the middle of his chest and pushed hard, so that he stumbled backward and fell to one knee. 

Oh, she enjoyed seeing graceful Sherlock stumbling. She’d do it again. While he was still bent over, she placed a hand on his shoulder and shoved, and he fell back onto the soft carpet. Sprawled on the floor, he let out a faint groan. Molly stepped over him and placed her foot on his chest. 

“Now I have you where I want you,” she purred. “Where you belong.” 

She saw Sherlock draw breath to speak, then had the pleasure of watching him bite back his words. Rocking her heel gently against his sternum, she thought for a moment. Should she reward him for stopping himself? Or punish him for the near disobedience? Why not do both?

Molly lowered herself so that she was sitting on Sherlock’s pelvis; she felt his cock move against her bottom. Giving him a smile, she ran her hands all over his silky skin; she’d longed to touch him for so long, and here he was, hands cuffed and held above his head (and she hadn’t told him to do that, but loved the effect), panting underneath her as she gave him the skin contact he craved. Well, Molly had cravings, too. She lowered her body down against his, took his face in her hands, and kissed him, something she knew no professional domina would do for him. 

Sherlock responded beautifully, parting his lips for her and moaning desperately into her mouth. When she pulled away, he actually lifted his head to reach after her kiss, lips flushed, chin trembling. Molly’s heart throbbed painfully at the beautiful sight.

She licked her lips theatrically, and considered. Time to add a little pain. She let her fingers trail through the sparse hair on his chest until she felt a tender nipple under her fingertips. Taking it between thumb and forefinger, she pressed, gently at first, then harder, crueler, until he writhed against her weight. Then the other, with identical methodology, yielding identical results except for the rising flush in his face, visible even in the dim glow of the covered lamp.

“You liked that,” she murmured, petting his chest and arms once again, soothingly. He lifted his head and gave her a quirk of his eyebrow, as if to say, _Obviously._

Oh, cheekiness. She couldn’t have that. She’d fast-forward her plans just a bit, even if she had to screw up her courage to do this next act. No time to think. She drew her hand back, and slapped his face. 

Sherlock gave a great gasp, and Molly felt a flash of alarm and guilt before she registered that he’d bucked his hips into her bottom at the same moment that the white mark on his cheek flushed into red. He locked eyes with her, intensely, and she could almost hear his voice in her head: _Again._

Molly swallowed hard, her heart sounding in her chest. It felt so wrong to do this, but...his eyes were begging her. She didn’t understand, but he’d written that he wanted this, wanted it especially. She drew her hand back once more, then cracked it against his cheek. 

Another gasp, another push of his erection into the crotch of her knickers. Molly ground down against him, and in the same moment, slapped him again, switching to the other hand to save her burning fingers and his mottling left cheek. At the deep groan he made, Molly’s instinct made her lay her hand soothingly against his cheek, but he shook it off, giving her more of that blazing, needy stare, watery now from the tears that were running down from his eyes to his hairline. 

One more slap, and then Molly was done, even if Sherlock was not. It was surprisingly painful to slap his face, both on her hand and in her heart. Whatever he needed, she had her own need now to give him affection and care, and impulsively, she leaned down to take his lips again. She broke the kiss in alarm; inside his mouth she had faintly tasted blood. 

“Sherlock, are you all right?” Molly asked, and he gave her a slow nod. “Do you want to stop?” An emphatic shake. Clearly he wanted more sensation, but…

Back to basics, then, Molly thought to herself. 

“Up,” Molly told him, getting to her feet and stepping away from him. God, the sight of Sherlock Holmes, half naked with cuffed hands, rolling onto his side to clamber unsteadily to his feet. Cheeks blazing red, tears streaming from his eyes, tented trousers. Every bit of his attention focused on her. Molly sighed with satisfaction, not bothering to hide her pleasure.

Turning, she sauntered to her sofa and took a seat in the middle, spreading her arms over the soft cushions and lounging casually back. She gave him no order, and the moment elongated as he stood uncertainly in front of her, while she regarded him with a cool smile. 

“Come here,” she said finally. “Lie over my lap. It’s rather too bad you never wear a belt, but...”

As she let her sentence trail off, Sherlock bit his lip in the most adorable way. Seeming to give in to impulse, he knelt before her for a moment and bent his head. Touched, Molly ruffled his hair.

Then, instead of lying across her lap as ordered, Sherlock did something she didn’t at first understand. Catching her eye with a scared look on his face, he swiftly bent to run his cuffed hands under her sofa. When he emerged, he was holding a riding crop. 

Molly’s heart melted with affection and pride as he brought up one knee, bent his curly head, and humbly presented the riding crop to her in a pose of supplication. He lifted his eyes, and her heart skipped a beat to see his streaming tears, his pleading expression. In the face of such beautiful submission, Molly thought, what could she do but accept what he was offering, what he was begging for?

Graciously, she took the riding crop and touched his shoulder with it. “Arise, sir knight,” she teased, and oh, there again the shy smile, the downcast eyes. She’d have to file that little nickname away as well. She laid her arms across the top of the sofa again, tapping the riding crop experimentally. 

“Now, undo the fastener of your trousers, and take down the zip partway. And lie over my lap, like I ordered you.” 

Excitement sparked in Sherlock’s eyes, and he made quick work of his trousers, then scrambled up onto the sofa. Carefully, he settled himself over her lap, almost shuddering as he settled his hips across her thighs. She hadn’t had to tell him to present his arse to her right hand. 

Cruelly, Molly parted her legs slightly, denying any friction to his cock beyond the fabric of his trousers. But she took his waistband in one hand and jerked it down, bringing his lily-white arse into view. Her pussy was burning to be touched, but Molly ignored the urge for the moment. 

“So lovely, darling boy,” she said, caressing and squeezing each buttock, letting him feel her nails, and Sherlock moaned and moved his hips helplessly. Molly didn’t know what vein of Oedipal fantasy she was delving into with that phrase, but the effect on Sherlock was exquisite. 

Placing the riding crop on the cushion beside her, Molly raised her hand and brought it down hard against his bottom. Sherlock jerked, and Molly gave him another spank, and another, watching little red handprints appear on that gorgeous arse, luxuriating in her spreading sense of focus and unquestionable power.

But he was being silent now, and that frustrated her. She wanted to make him shout with pain, but knew from her studies that she had to warm up his arse before starting in with the crop; additionally, she didn’t want to tire herself out too soon. She paced herself, spanking him steadily for some minutes, concentrating on that place on the lower half of his arse that the book called “the sweet spot.”

She could hear Sherlock breathing hard, but as she swept her left hand across his cheek, she found that his tears had stopped. Well, that just wouldn’t do. Between one spank and the moment he was expecting the next, she picked up the riding crop, and brought it down.

Sherlock bucked and roared through his teeth. Molly paused, assessing the bright mark she’d left across his arse. “My, my, Sherlock. Another?” She’d read that the crop was an intense instrument, to be used carefully.

Sherlock nodded tightly, his curls shaking a little, and Molly got an idea. She carded her fingers deep into his hair and tightened them into a fist before bringing the crop down a second time. He arched his back, whimpering as she pulled his head backward.

“That’s right, darling boy. That’s right,” Molly said, her voice low and soothing as she gave him a third stripe, and a fourth. 

Sherlock’s moans rose in tone, and he stiffened, his body spasming two, three times. And Molly felt her mouth drop open in wonder as she realised that Sherlock had come in his pants. 

That was all she could bear. Molly dropped the crop, then pulled at her dress and slipped her fingers inside her knickers to stroke into her melting wetness. It took only a few moments before she was twitching her hips up into his body, riding out her own climax, her left hand still fisted in his hair. 

Spent, Molly let her head drop onto the back of the sofa and took a moment to recover. As soon as her fingers relaxed in Sherlock’s hair, she felt him moving, and cracked her eyes open to see his face looking into hers. 

She kissed him, his tears wetting her face, and together they shifted until they were lying on the sofa, wrapped up in each other. 

Sherlock was touching her face, still weeping quietly, his lips silently forming one word, over and over, and Molly knew he was repeating her name. She stopped his lips with a kiss. 

His fingers were plucking at the front of her dress, so hesitant, so hopeful, and Molly threw caution to the wind and pulled the stretchy material up over her head, flinging the dress to the floor. Sherlock gave a gasp of excitement, then reached behind her to unhook her bra while Molly pulled her legs up and struggled out of her knickers. Skin against skin, they kissed each other hungrily, their hands shaking and colliding in a frenzy of caresses.

Soon they were slipping half off the couch, and Sherlock pushed his trousers down and kicked them aside. His cock was freed from his pants, and Molly gasped to see that he was ready again. 

She hadn’t prepared for this, but Sherlock reached to his discarded trousers and pulled a foil-wrapped condom out of the pocket, flourishing it with a smile. 

“You presumptuous bastard,” Molly smirked, running her nails hard down his back. “Fine, but you can do all the work,” she said, pulling a cushion under her head and lying back. Sherlock needed no further encouragement; he rolled on the condom, settled himself between her legs, and slid inside her. 

He was big, but Molly was hungry, and in a few moments, he was fully seated and groaning with longing as she held his lower back, bidding him to keep still inside her. 

“Now move,” she told him. “Service your lady, make me proud, you beautiful man.” Slowly, he began to thrust, and with her hand on his back she limited his movement, keeping him most of the way inside her, luxuriating in the deep, leisurely sensations she preferred. But she wanted more pressure.

“Harder, Sherlock, and keep it slow. And don’t you dare come before I do.” Lying back, feeling the lovely Sherlock Holmes coming apart over her body, Molly made him gasp and moan with every pinch and slap on his poor, tormented arse, and the thought arose in her mind: I could really get used to this little arrangement.


	2. Chapter 2

“I don’t know what kind of magic you’ve been using on Sherlock, but cheers, Molls. He’s been a good bit less unbearable recently,” Greg told Molly as they both watched Sherlock explain the corpse’s injuries to a forensic tech. Molly looked across the room at Sherlock; those plush lips were held tightly, and he kept rolling his eyes behind the man’s back, but his actual words were, if quite loud and not exactly personable, at least barely civil. She lifted her chin and smiled in satisfaction. 

“Well, at the morgue, at least. I mean, look at him biting his tongue, actually letting Drew speak for a moment. Being downright tolerable,” Greg continued. “Seems like he wants to stay on your good side, yeah?”

“Just at the morgue? Oh, dear. I’m sorry to hear that,” Molly said lightly, her smile disappearing. She looked over at the detective and raised her eyebrows, giving him that expectant, questioning look she’d been refining. Sherlock was chattering at the man again, but sensed her gaze on him; his eyes flickered to hers, and he paused in his headlong explanation for just one second. He tilted his head at Molly in a silent question.

“Yeah,” Greg was saying. “In the field, he’s bad as ever. Seemed he was in a good mood for a while there, but now we’re back to the same old Sherlock. Making my techs cry, shouting at witnesses. But the Yard still needs him, so what can we do?”

“Don’t know,” Molly replied softly. “Nothing, I suppose.” 

As Greg stepped away to take a call, Molly stayed behind the sterilized autopsy table and kept watching Sherlock as he finished up the explanation. He glanced up at Molly again, and she let her eyes narrow at him, unmistakably. And this time, he understood. She saw his lips tremble. 

**

“In my office,” Molly hissed behind his back, and those shoulders stiffened inside the Belstaff. He turned his curly head, lips parting to speak, but Molly held up a finger. 

“Not a word, Sherlock. My office, now.” And she turned on her heel and strode away down the corridor, leaving the tall man to follow meekly in her wake. 

“Lock the door behind you,” Molly said, sitting behind her desk. “And close the blinds.”

Sherlock flicked the louvers shut with an efficient twist of those long fingers, then stood before her desk, his hands clasped in front of him. Under her annoyance with Sherlock, Molly was pleased to note that he made no attempt to sit in the other chair. Clearly he knew he was in trouble, but Molly suspected he had no idea of why, or of how she’d punish him. Her lips quirked. 

“I heard from Greg just now that you’ve been backsliding,” Molly said quietly. “Being horrible to people again. I’m very, very disappointed in you, Sherlock.” 

He let out a shuddering breath, but Molly caught his eyes flickering down and to the side, his lip curling just a little. Molly snatched up the pointer she used to teach, and slammed it down hard on the desk. He jumped at the loud noise.

“I don’t care if you think they’re all idiots. You’ll keep a civil tongue, Sherlock. You know what happens when you’re impolite. You get a little reminder.” She kept her gaze steady, and was gratified to see his eyes drop, and a blush spread over his face. 

“But that’s not even what I’m most disappointed about, Sherlock. You did something so much worse.” He turned his head half an inch, not understanding, and Molly sighed. “You went behind my back. Acted nicely in the morgue, in front of me, but continued your old ways where I couldn’t see.”

Sherlock closed his eyes; his shoulders sagged. Oh, now he understood, the impossible man. “You need special punishment,” she continued. “Tonight. But for now…”

Molly let her hand drift down to the bottom drawer of her desk, turned the key in the lock, and brought out the implements she kept there for when Sherlock needed discipline. His blush deepened as she laid the items out on her desk. Then Molly stood and came round to stand beside him. 

“Coat off,” she ordered, looking up into his face. “And assume the position.”

Immediately he scrambled to obey, laying aside the Belstaff and his suit jacket, then opening his trousers. He bent over her desk and, with his cheek against the smooth wood, pulled up his dress shirt and tugged his trousers down over his arse. And there he lay, that lean waist and laughably lily-white arse exposed, just waiting for her. Molly smiled, and rolled up her sleeves. 

She took her time getting ready, knowing that Sherlock was vibrating with tension and impatience. Let him wait. Let every moment become a lesson he needed to learn. Humming a cheery little tune, she let her fingers walk over the implements on the desk, right in front of Sherlock’s nose. 

“Which shall I pick?” she mused, toying with one wicked instrument after another. She watched that face, those eyes following her fingers carefully, and savoured that nervous blinking, that swallow of fear. 

“Ah,” Molly said finally, her fingertips touching the handle of a viciously narrow paddle. “Here’s what you need today. I like the marks this little beauty leaves on your arse, Sherlock, and it looks rather like a tawse for a schoolboy, doesn’t it.” She lifted the paddle in her right hand, and came round to Sherlock’s left side. “And if you act like a snotty schoolboy, Sherlock, you’ll be treated as one.”

And Molly brought the paddle down onto Sherlock’s arse, right in the sweet spot where buttocks met thighs. The crack of the paddle was lovely; Sherlock grunted. 

Molly threaded her left hand into the curls at the back of his head, pulling the hair tightly. Sherlock whimpered; oh, his scalp was so beautifully sensitive. Smiling, Molly brought down the paddle again. 

This time, with pain blossoming over both his hair follicles and his arse, Sherlock let out a low cry. “Not too loud, young man,” Molly said, smirking. “Unless you’d like the whole hospital to know you’re being punished.”

She gave him another hard crack of the paddle, and another. Then she aimed the last one right over the place where she’d struck him first, where a livid red mark was already starting to show. Helplessly, Sherlock let out a sharp sob. 

“Lovely, Sherlock,” she said, putting the paddle aside. “Five marks will be quite enough for now. Besides,” she continued, her hand snaking around his hips, “I know you, filthy boy. Any more, and you might enjoy it far too much.” Her fingers brushed lightly over the silky skin of his straining erection. 

“Ha,” Sherlock bit out, jumping at the contact. It was almost a word, and Sherlock well knew he wasn’t allowed to speak while he was being punished, unless it was to moan or cry out, or to say his safeword. Molly pressed her lips together. 

“So wilful, Sherlock. Put on the blindfold.” Clearly a little enhancement to the punishment was in order. 

He obeyed, catching up the leather piece and securing it around his eyes. Watching him, Molly stepped out of her skirt, laying it and her knickers aside, then walked around him to sit comfortably in her chair. 

“Crawl to me,” she ordered. “Time to give your mistress a little treat. Show your gratitude for all I do to keep you right.” She parted her legs and slid down in her seat, enjoying the sight of Sherlock, normally so graceful, kneeling on the floor awkwardly with his trousers still halfway down, and groping blindly ahead of him as he crawled around her desk. 

Finally his reaching fingers brushed her foot; on impulse, Sherlock leaned over to kiss her instep, so tenderly.

“Sweet boy,” she told him, letting him hear the gentleness in her voice. “Now...let me feel that lovely mouth between my legs.” 

His pink tongue darted out to lick those full lips, and Sherlock put his powerful hands gently on her creamy thighs and dipped his dark head. Molly sighed contentedly at the first skilful swipe of his tongue over her very wet pussy. 

Her Sherlock was always enthusiastic when given the opportunity to please her with his mouth, but he was being especially devoted today, Molly reflected, lost in the bliss of Sherlock’s face in her cunt. Anxious, no doubt, about what awaited him tonight, and attempting to placate her. She’d have to threaten him with special punishment more often, she thought as he lashed her up to a state of panting, wriggling excitement. But she’d not be merciful. Not later. Not now. 

“Sherlock,” she gasped. “Kneel up.” She scooted farther down in the chair. “Come here. I want you to fill me.” She caught a smile on his wet, reddened mouth as he fumbled his trousers farther down and lined up his eager cock, then pressed his hard length slowly inside her with a sigh of gratification. Molly crooned as that sweet pressure brimmed in her, but stifled a giggle at Sherlock’s excitement. Did he believe, now, that she was giving him a treat? Silly, silly man. 

“Harder, Sherlock,” she ordered him. “Angle your hips downward...yes. There. Faster. Oh, yes, Sherlock.” Molly let her head drop back as ecstasy coiled tighter in her belly, tighter, so tight and wet around his driving cock. “Don’t stop. Oh, good boy.” Sherlock was gritting his teeth, giving her the deep thrusts she loved, but now trying valiantly to hold back his own climax. Oh, what a beautiful sight.

Gasping, she leaned up to kiss those tightly pulled lips, still slick with her tart juices. Just as she tipped over the edge, she reached down to grip his shirt, pulling him hard against her, holding him deep in her cunt as she rode out her orgasm against his body. 

Finally, she released the shirt and leaned back, pushing him gently away from her. “Ah, that was nice, Sherlock. Now, stand up and lean over the desk for the last of it.” She reached for her clothes.

Oh, there was his pout. Now he understood. He knew better than to come without her permission, of course, but she’d been fairly generous with his orgasms thus far. Well, too bad. 

“No dawdling, Sherlock. Did you forget that you’re being punished?” She pressed a box of tissues into his hands. “Wipe off, and lean over the desk as ordered. And stop sniveling. You’ll survive.”

Sherlock gave a sigh, but obeyed her, then got unsteadily to his feet. He kept the damp tissue in his hand as he leaned over the desk again. And Molly reached for the little tube of creamy lubricant, snapped on a latex glove. 

“Open for me, Sherlock,” she said, and heard Sherlock’s groan as she found his furled opening and slipped a slender finger inside, where he was tight and warm and pulsing. After a moment, she gave him another finger, and Sherlock uttered a deep groan as she pressed him in that sensitive place she loved so well. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his cock twitch.

Drawing out of him, she reached for the flexible little plug that had lain on the desk, waiting for Sherlock, all this time. She coated it in more of the creamy lubricant, then swirled the tapered tip around his hole. 

“Remember, Sherlock,” she told him as she gently pushed the plug into his body, seating it snugly in his arse, smiling at his moans. “Don’t be rude. You’re such an impolite boy. You need a reminder, so I’m being kind and giving you one. You’ve still got a little time left with the Yard today. So I want you to make a good start on better behaviour, with my plug inside you, so you won’t forget. Now,” she said, reaching up to tug the blindfold off, “put that cock away, do up your trousers, and go back to meet Lestrade.”

Sherlock let out a long, low breath against the desk, then pushed up to his feet again, his head lowered. Chastened, defeated. As Molly watched, he tucked his weeping erection into his underwear and, carefully, fastened up his trousers once more. He let out a little groan. 

“Yes, uncomfortable, aren’t you, Sherlock. With your poor cock all aching, and your pretty arse paddled and plugged. Too bad you were rude.” She handed him the tube of lubricant, which he tucked into his coat. “Use this if you need to. But as always, unless the plug is hurting you, I want you to keep it inside until I take it out. Tonight, at the usual hour. Bet you won’t be late.” She gave him a cheery smile, and opened her office door to wave him out. 

Molly watched with amusement as her detective walked rather gingerly across of the empty room, giving his curls a halfhearted ruffle but entirely forgetting to flip up his coat collar.

“Oh Sherlock, darling,” she called after him, and he stopped and turned halfway round, his lips parting as his wide eyes gazed back at her, almost in alarm. 

“Stop off at the men’s room first thing, why don’t you,” she said. “You’ve still got a bit of...me...on your face.” And Molly smiled sweetly at Sherlock as he laid a shy hand over his mouth and turned slowly away.

**Author's Note:**

> NB: Sherlock never wears a belt because his suits are bespoke, made to his measure, and sit on his hips perfectly. The jerk.
> 
> ALSO this fic now has a companion piece:  
> His Silence: The Palm Frond.  
> Enjoy!


End file.
